


A Dirty Wind Blowing (A Storm Front Coming In)

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, As in they are HUMANIZED CARS, Begging, Blow Jobs, Daddy Issues, Dirty Talk, Doc is about 70, Drunk Sex, First Time, Humanized, M/M, McQueen is about 30, Repression, Romance, Teasing, also Doc is ALIVE, for those of you wondering, not actual cars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 05:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18230387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: A dive bar, a thunderstorm, and some bad judgement on McQueen's part.





	A Dirty Wind Blowing (A Storm Front Coming In)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think this requires a dub-con warning since there's a lot of verbal consent, but for those of you who are sensitive about about consent stuff, the sex DOES happen while McQueen is drunk(ish). I head canon these two as being super shitty communicators buried beneath layers of self hatred and and sexuality confusion, and I don't imagine any of their first times occurring with well-negotiated boundaries. These stories are NOT designed to be prescriptive or demonstrations of healthy dynamics or anything like that. 
> 
> Okkkk so! This started out as a Drabble based on the prompt, "a kiss out of lust." I liked where I was going with it so it turned into a whole entire story. I LOVE these character and will be writing about them for awhile/into the foreseeable future, so thank you thank you thank you to those of you who've taken a risk and stepped outside their comfort zone to read in a new fandom. I appreciate it!!
> 
> Also, massive massive thank you to my fabulous beta Jen, who is somehow up to read and edit most anything I write, even if its like...humanized cars fic. You're the best, I can't believe you put up me going on and on about how gay the CCU (cars cinematic universe) is. Love you.

They’re at a bar just outside of Radiator Springs that plays old NASCAR races from the ‘80s on a projection screen, and McQueen has had one or two too many. 

It’s not his fault. Being around Doc without the pit crew is claustrophobic, makes him crazy, and he needs something to take the edge off or he’ll blow. Drinks are cheap and strong here, so he makes do by downing a few in rapid succession.

It’s been six agonizing months since McQueen realized that he probably likes guys as much as he likes girls, five since he started feeling even a tiny bit comfortable with the word _bisexual,_ and four since he admitted to himself the reason why he so desperately seeks the approval of his mentor is at least in part because he wants to climb him like a tree. 

It’s been weird. A relief in some ways, terrifying in others, but mostly just…weird. 

And perhaps not all that shocking, now that he thinks about it. He’s probably had some sort of crush on the Fabulous Hudson Hornet ever since he saw the grainy footage of his crash in a racing documentary that he obsessively watched as a kid. He remembers Doc’s smiling face, his clean-cut good looks, the tragic smoking heap of blue metal he was pulled from. McQueen would rewind and watch it over and over again, so many times that there’s damage on the VHS tape, white lines cutting through the scene from overuse. He’d pour over it, stomach in knots, a nameless sort of feeling in his chest like a whole flock of birds itching to take off when the voiceover said that Doc survived but never went back to win another Piston Cup. The story drew him in, titillated him, inspired him, but it wasn’t _just_ the story. It was something about the way Doc _looked,_ his gravel-rough, honey-sweet voice on the documentary, like an old movie star, his devil-may-care attitude, like he _knew_ he was better than the rest of them. 

Then he’d _met_ Doc, seen his Piston Cups, _hated_ him for locking them up and letting them gather dust like disposable party favors. It’s miraculous that they’d somehow become friends, and after that, more. Doc was his mentor, the closest person in the world to him, the only crew chief who ever mocked him to his face and let him fuck up enough times that he was actually willing to step down from his own ego and accept real advice, _learn._ Doc taught him humility, taught him how to be a team player, taught him how to grow. He’s _so_ many things now _:_ McQueen’schildhood idol, teacher, mentor. His best friend.

It’s a shame that he’s also _so fucking hot._

There’s no other way to put it. McQueen’s type in men is _shaped_ by the Fabulous Hudson Hornet, by that quiet, confident flair, so he’s doomed. There’s a reason why he’s obsessively drawn to seeking praise from tall, broad, surly, silver foxes who won’t give him the time of day until they eventually cave to the sheer will of his persistence. There’s a reason why he watched all those westerns growing up. And now, that reason why is _also_ the person he spends the most _time_ around, the person he’s supposed to regard with a platonic, even filial admiration. He’s failed miserably at that, made it all dirty, and it’s confusing. 

Matters are further complicated by the fact that he _knows_ Doc is gay. It’s worse this way because it’s not like this is some lofty John Wayne fantasy, seducing and bedding a man who’d just as soon punch his lights out. It’s a man who _knows what he’s doing,_ who’s done it before, who’s probably so fucking good at it that he could show McQueen how to do it, too, just like he taught him how to dig into the curves around the banking, how to get his tires dirty, how to drive outside the smooth, paved safety of a track. 

McQueen’s fantasies aren’t aimless or impossible, they’re backed by _evidence._ And that makes them all the more miserable to entertain. Just because Doc is gay doesn’t mean he’d ever think of McQueen like that. He’d probably _laugh_ if he ever made a move, some pathetic pup nipping at his heels, asking to be picked up. It’s pitiful. 

Doc is extremely private, so McQueen hasn’t the foggiest idea of what he gets up to when he’s not around, but if he’s entertaining other men, he most _certainly_ isn’t picking up overeager, twenty-eight-year-old idiots who only _just_ realized that they aren’t straight. He probably prefers men like him, tall and handsome and dry-humored and even-tempered and kind under the layer of icy grit. At the very least, he probably likes _experienced_ men who’ve already figured themselves out and aren’t in the throes of some crisis. McQueen can hardly imagine being _attractive_ to someone like Doc. He’s too young, too slight, too…straight-looking, whatever that means. He _knows_ gay men look all sorts of ways, but he’s become painfully aware of the fact that he modeled his own look on the ‘90s-era high school heartthrobs the girls loved when he was a kid, believing well into his adulthood that what looked good universally was what looked good to the most popular girl in the 5th grade, a girl who actively and aggressively ignored his dogged pursuits of her. He didn’t figure it out until he realized that he was bi, but his perception of his own attractiveness is built on what he thinks girls find attractive, not on any sort of personal style or self-awareness. Furthermore, he doesn’t _know_ what other men find attractive, how to, like…communicate that he’s interested in them at all. Doc probably thinks he’s the straightest guy in the world, just because he’s projected it so aggressively and for _years_. He doesn’t know how to stop. 

There’s a gnarly crash happening on the projection screen, and the bar patrons are whooping in appreciation. McQueen flicks his gaze to Doc, hoping that he’s not upset by it, even though he _knows_ Doc likes watching a good pile-up as much as any other driver, which is with utter glee. Sure enough, he’s chuckling, shaking his head. “Big one,” he mutters under his breath, eyes twinkling, and, _god,_ McQueen wishes he was in his fucking lap, chewing on his neck. There’s no limit, ever, to how _close_ he wants to be, and it’s horrible. He waves the bartender over and asks for another drink. 

“Straight up this time,” he grumbles. “Skip the mixer.” 

“No, you don’t,” Doc interjects reproachfully, turning away from the smoking wreckage to grab McQueen’s wrist. “Time to cut you off, hot shot. We’re walking home, remember?” 

The way he says _home_ twists and smolders in McQueen’s gut with the liquor. He wants to go home with Doc, to _his_ home, the one with the dusty Piston Cups in the garage. He wants to spread out naked on _his_ clean, crisp sheets, watch the skin of his own thighs grow pink, scraped raw against Doc’s trimmed beard. _Ugh._ He tries to gesture the bartender over again, but Doc pushes his entire arm into the pock-marked counter, grip firm on McQueen’s elbow in this way that makes him shut right up, go slack. “M’not _that_ drunk, grandpa,” he slurs. 

“Yeah? Tell that to yourself in the morning when you wake up with your head in a toilet bowl. Hey, can we get this kid a water?” 

The bartender brings over a sweating bottle as McQueen rolls his eyes, even though he downs half of it, the coldness feeling good as it goes down. Doc watches the whole time, amusement barely concealed, like McQueen is so predictably young, such a sloppy, undignified drunk. “Happy?” McQueen asks, slamming the crinkled water bottle down onto the bar. “You’re no fun.” 

“I’m loads of fun,” Doc smirks knowingly, making McQueen’s fuzzy brain jump to a million places it shouldn’t, his stomach tighten up again. “Know any other crew chiefs who take their kids out to watch crashes and drink?” 

McQueen is leaning into him now, he can’t help it. Doc is big and hot-solid, and being called _his kid_ makes him want to curl up and die in shame at the same time it makes him want so badly to _please_ him, to do good, to sink to his knees and open his mouth. “Yeah, okay, you’re alright,” he sighs, and Doc curls an arm around his waist and hauls him to his feet, so impossibly _strong._ Doc complains all the time about being old and broken or frail or whatever, but McQueen hugs him enough to know how _hard_ he is under his dress shirts and mechanic’s coveralls and Rust-eze windbreakers, how _broad. “_ You’re really fit for an old guy,” he declares as Doc steers him out the door. 

“See, now I _know_ it’s time to cut you off...you’ve started _flattering_ me,” he jokes, big hand open wide and warm on McQueen’s hip, guiding him. It’s been raining outside, so the pavement glistens and cracks under their shoes as they start to walk back to town. It’s only a mile or so, but McQueen can’t stand that much time pressed up against Doc’s body like this, smelling his cologne under the beer and cigarette ghost of the bar. 

“I can walk fine by myself,” he argues, even though he’s not so sure that’s true, if he even _wants_ space. He knows he _should,_ but it feels too nicehaving Doc so close, having him look down at him and shake his head, one corner of his mouth quirked up into a smile. His mustache is salt and pepper, and McQueen wants it scratching against his upper lip, his pulse, below his navel. He groans, and Doc actually laughs at him. 

“God,” he says, pushing McQueen along. “What’s got _into_ you, son? Besides the three whiskey colas.” 

“Four,” McQueen corrects. There’s a flash across the dark, star-littered sky, and not soon after, a massive rumble of thunder. One of those crazy desert storms is coming fast, and they’re gonna get drenched, he just knows it. “Fuck, you’re gonna be all wet, m’gonna see your chest hair through your shirt,” he announces, pretty sure it’s too vague for Doc to know what he’s talking about. 

“And _that_ would be a tragedy,” Doc grumbles, looking up as the first cold, fat drops begin to fall on them. “Seeing this pretty-fit-for-an-old-guy in the flesh must be terrifying for a youngster like you, getting a glimpse of all the fun stuff the future has to hold.” 

He means getting older, and McQueen _knows_ it. But he’s drunk, and it’s begun to really rain and he’s cold and Doc is _hot,_ skin burning through the layers of cotton, and he’s so _close_ and he just—it just comes out. “God, I _wish_ ,” he blurts. “Too bad m’not your type.” 

Doc coughs. It’s not a laugh, it’s clipped tight on the edges with something like disbelief, with discomfort. McQueen turns to him, slumping and panicked, about to backpedal, but he’s silenced by another thunderclap so loud that it sends him off balance. He pitches into Doc’s chest, and then he’s feeling up it, thumb pushing between two buttons and touching burning skin under the give of coarse hair, and, _fuck,_ god, he wants him _so, so badly_ , there aren’t even words for it. “You’re drunk,” Doc says quietly, hands spread wide and steady over McQueen’s lower back, breath hot against the shell of his ear. 

It’s pouring now, the blood is pounding in McQueen’s head, and all of this convinces him that whatever he says next will be lost to the sound of the storm, so it can’t hurt him. “I’m bisexual,” he admits, hating the way the word sounds in his voice but grinding it out anyway, every shameful, awkward syllable. “And I had a crush on your picture when I was, like, ten. Sorry.” 

If Doc hears him, he should laugh. McQueen is half-expecting it. But instead, he just feels Doc’s heart pick up under his own hand, hears his breath hitch a bit. “Fuck,” he murmurs, low and hot, and, _Jesus,_ McQueen hardly _ever_ hears him curse like that, and it goes straight to his dick. 

The gel has melted out of Doc’s hair under the onslaught of rain, so it’s sticky-soft and slick as McQueen pushes the hand that’s not trapped between their chests up into it, touching blindly, making a fist before he tilts his head ever so slightly and fits their mouths together, without even meaning to.

It’s like finding something in the dark on instinct, falling into a rhythm, crossing a finish line. It just happens, and everything changes. 

Doc must be drunk, too, because he kisses _back_ , tastes like liquor. _Fuck, yes, god,_ McQueen thinks, the last intelligible words to cross his mind before everything is replaced with static, spit, stubble, slick. They kiss hot and fierce while it pours down around them, and, yeah, Doc _is_ good at this, he _has_ done it before. He holds McQueen tightly so that he can’t pull away, tips him back exactly where he wants him, and bites his lip, cheating into him before wrenching away. “Hey,” he says, sounding broken, palming up McQueen’s sides, rucking his shirt up a bit in the process, exposing strips of skin to the night. “We’re outside a dive bar, kid,” he’s murmuring, still touching him with trembling hands, like he doesn’t even realize it’s happening. “We gotta stop.”

“Don’t care,” McQueen pants, lurching forward and trying to catch his hot, wet mouth again. He’s drunk and stupid, though, so Doc stops him easily, backs him into a street lamp, which bites cold and wet into his back through the cotton of his shirt. 

“You’re stupid not to care...trust me, you can’t do this sort of thing out here in the open,” he mutters, dipping close, inhaling from McQueen’s neck, just _sniffling him_ like a dog or something, and Jesus _Christ,_ it makes McQueen’s knees weak, makes him want to lift his arm, spread his thighs, give Doc something rawer and filthier to smell. “And you’re drunk...too drunk to know what you want.” 

“I guarantee you that I want this _all_ the time, sober, asleep, whenever. M’only drunk _because_ of this, because you’re hard...hard to be around, sometimes, for me. Want you too badly, drives me insane,” he admits, the whole shameful truth just pouring out of him like the rain from the sky. “I get it if you don’t want me like that, though,” he tacks on, like he’s forgotten that Doc kissed him back, like it was a mistake. “I get...I don’t know, m’not exactly a _catch,_ for a guy like you. You think m’just a kid.” 

Doc’s laugh is dark, heavy. It cuts into McQueen, and he just wants to kiss him even _more,_ suck the sadness from his tongue, all of his secrets, his regrets. “I _must_ be driving you crazy if you think you’re not every single fucking thing I’ve wanted since I _was_ your age. Since you drove into this fucking town with your goddamned stickers. Since you asked me to show you everything I could.” He’s growling against the corner of McQueen’s mouth, and it’s not a kiss, not quite, but it’s close enough that it probably shouldn’t be happening here outside a dive bar, either. McQueen doesn’t _care,_ though, he’s _reeling,_ he’s drunk, drunker on Doc’s breath as it huffs out over his chin. The rain drums down on his skin, but still, he’s got a fever, this is the hottest thing that’s ever fucking happened to him.

“Fuck,” he begs, voice pitiful, hips shifting, seeking pressure. “Take me home, please...show me everything you can.” 

“Okay, kid,” Doc says, shoving him off, catching him before he falls to the pavement in a mess of trembling limbs. “We’ll see.” 

—-

It takes them an eternity to get there. The rain is persistent, but so is McQueen; he keeps trying to stop Doc, get his hands on him, kiss him again because it’s _unfair_ that he should have to wait, it’s _unfair_ that he’s cold and shivery when he _could_ be going up in flames. He’s soaked through when they get to the house, but still, he crowds Doc up on the porch, pushes him into the door as he’s trying to unlock it with trembling hands, mouth wet on his neck. He tastes like the storm, and he’s shaking beneath McQueen’s lips in seismic tremors, like a whole entire earthquake. “Fuck,” McQueen mumbles, palming down his spine, his sides. “Can’t believe this is real.” 

“You and me both,” Doc huffs out, finally managing to turn the key in the latch and push the door open. 

The hinges squeak like they always do, familiar and comforting, and it’s _dry_ inside, it smells like yesterday’s home cooking and wood smoke and detergent, and, _god,_ he’s so fucking in love with this house and this man, and all he wants is to be _taken,_ laid down by strong, firm, knowing hands. He rounds on Doc, tries to kiss him again, but Doc catches his face between his palms and cups him gently, backs him toward the wall where he flicks on the light. “Shower first, kid...you’re shaking.” 

“Just take me to bed,” he begs, but Doc is either not as into him as he is into Doc, or he has miraculous self-control. He shakes his head and smiles, _amused,_ like McQueen is funny to him, his wet hair and his desperation and his drunk-clumsy stumbles. “I know m’ridiculous, but—”

“You’re…,” Doc trails off, pulling McQueen to him and breathing in from his neck for a moment again, grip so _tender_ and gentle on his back, cradling him like something fragile. “You’re a lot of things. Ridiculous is one of them, yeah...soaked through is another. What sort of mentor would I be if I did anything _but_ get your ass in the shower before you catch a cold?” He’s steering McQueen then, walking him down the hall, shoving him into the bathroom, shaking his head. “Shower, first...get warm.” 

“Come with me?” McQueen asks hopefully, even though he _knows_ it’s a long shot. Doc is too professional, too _composed_ to agree to something so crazy and vulnerable. Still, McQueen isn’t above asking. He’s debased, he's ripped open, he’s _bleeding_ already, and he’ll take what he can get, claw for more while Doc is at least allowing him that. He misplaced his dignity drunk on the sidewalk, and it’s washed away now, lost to the sea as he bashes himself to bits like a boat washed in and tearing itself up on a rocky shore. And he doesn't even _care._ He thinks of the smoking rubble from the documentary, and he wants to touch it with his hands.

“No,” Doc says firmly, pushing him with a palm square in his chest. “Drink some water, will you? Sober up.” 

And just like that, Doc shuts the door in his face, and McQueen is left shivering on the bathmat, hair dripping down his neck, teeth chattering. He could _follow_ Doc, he could push, but at the same time, he _knows_ it won't work, he just runs the risk of driving him too far away. He has to play by his weird, conservative, old-man rules, so he cups his hands and drinks a few grateful palmfuls of water from the sink as he waits for the shower to heat up. 

_Slow down,_ he tells himself, carding trembling hands through his hair. _Slow down, slow down._

But as he lets the hot water cascade over his head, breathes in the steam, he keeps getting ahead of himself. Making his own stomach drop by remembering the kisses, the way Doc breathed him _in,_ the crazy, impossible things he said. _I must be driving you crazy if you think you’re not every single fucking thing I’ve wanted since I was your age. Since you drove into this fucking town with your goddamned stickers. Since you asked me to show you everything I could._ He’s not slowing down, he’s racing like he always does, heart pounding as he uses Doc’s soap and thinks about how it’s touched the whole of Doc’s body, how he stands naked in this shower, too, just like McQueen is right now. 

_Slow down,_ he repeats, but at this point it’s lost all meaning. 

_—-_

Doc has dried off and combed his hair, and is turning down the sheets in his bedroom where McQueen finds him. He had been feeling slightly less crazy and more put together after his shower, warmed up and wrapped in one of Doc’s fluffy black towels, ready to try being suave and seductive this time instead of whatever disastrous mess he’d been minutes ago, but Doc fucks it all up, robs him of his breath. He’s wearing nothing but a _bathrobe,_ for one, soft and gray, and McQueen has literally _never_ seen him in anything other than dress shirts and slacks, sweater vests, his pit-chief jumpsuit, so it shocks him. “Jesus,” he gasps, coming in and sitting down on the side of Doc’s bed because his knees are wobbly, his balance compromised. “I’m officially warm and dry, are you happy? Can we go back to kissing again?” 

Something unreadable flickers across Doc’s face. “Think it’s best you get some sleep, hot shot. It’s been quite a night.” He turns away and begins to gather things, his reading glasses, a book, like he’s _leaving,_ and, _no,_ fuck suave and seductive, McQueen is not above begging for this.

“Quite a night… _Doc,_ are you _kidding_ me? _C’mon,_ I’m…I’m begging you, here. You get that, right? I’m begging you. Have some pity,” McQueen spills out messily, tipping back into the bed, letting the towel fall away. Doc looks away, swallowing thickly. “Please.” 

“You can sleep here, in the bed. I’ll take the couch in the living room, and in the morning, we’ll talk, okay? But right now…I just need you to get some sleep.” He rubs his palms over his face, looking exhausted, and, _fuck,_ McQueen doesn’t know _why_ this is happening, why Doc is _so_ convinced that he’s not coherent enough to make decisions about his future, his sex life. He _knows_ what he wants because he wants it _constantly,_ obsessively, enough to make him dizzy, to flood his mouth, to break his heart. 

“ _Fuck,_ Doc…what do I gotta do? Do you wanna read my _diary?_ If I had one, it would be full of you. Overflowing. I don’t know why you think I don’t want this.” 

“You’re drunk,” Doc offers, cocking his head, eyes flashing before they go dark. “And young and stupid and reckless about everything you do. Put these on,” he says, handing McQueen a neatly folded pair of Fruit of the Loom sweats. They’re black and cotton and probably from Target, and McQueen wants to _cry,_ loves the idea of wearing Doc’s clothes so much that he loses sight of things a bit and gratefully pulls them on.

“I might be all those things sometimes, sure,” he sighs as he lies back down, chest heaving because everything is hard right now, takes energy. “But that doesn’t mean I don't want this, or that it’s not real. M’gonna want it just as badly tomorrow when I’m hungover, so what’s the big deal? Plus, you _have_ done stuff already...you let me kiss you, we made out. So _at least_ make out with me again. No-take-backsies.” 

Doc shakes his head, and McQueen thinks he’s gonna say _goodnight, kid_ and leave, but that’s not what happens. He drops down on the bed gingerly before bearing down on him, raking one hand across his side while cupping his face carefully with the other. McQueen’s heart stops, and his whole body freezes, trembling as Doc touches him. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?” he asks gently, facial hair rough and tickling against McQueen’s sternum, making him gasp. “What in the hell am I supposed to do?” 

“Kiss me,” McQueen tells him, mussing up his hair again, palming over his back in awed, tentative strokes. He wants to grab, to bite, but more than anything else, he wants Doc to _stay,_ so he stays still, prudent and trembling and holding the whole of the storm inside back. “You don't have to do anything more. Just kiss me, okay? Don’t sleep on the couch, just—,” but before he can finish, Doc is tipping him back into the pillows, tonguing open his teeth, groaning into his mouth. 

It’s like the tide coming for him, sweeping him away, and, _fuck,_ it’s so good. Doc can rush into any vacancy he has as long as he _stays,_ kisses him, touches him with that terrifying, glorious, tenuous grip. “You’re irresistible, and you don’t even...don’t even know it,” he might breathe into McQueen’s neck before kissing it, mouthing over his pulse. It’s hard to make out the words over the sound of his own heartbeat, and it’s just a rumbling growl against his skin before Doc is climbing on top of him, touching him like he’s not sure if he’s real. 

It’s hard not to want more, but McQueen is dizzy, and it feels so _good,_ just this, the weight of him, the hot scrape of his breath. He’s so fierce and so gentle all at once that it shouldn't be real, but here it is, and McQueen will _take_ it. He’ll chase it if he has to, eyes streaming, wind at his back. “You good?” Doc asks him as he pulls away, rolls onto his side so that McQueen can get closer, push into him.

“Perfect, so good,” he whimpers, licking his lips, pitching into Doc’s solidity again, greedy hands everywhere. He tries to tangle their legs, but Doc’s are so solid and rigid, hair coarse as they scrub against his own, _fuck,_ so hot, so _masculine_ in this way that makes his stomach lurch, his heart speed up. He’s wondered so much about this, about kissing another guy, kissing _Doc,_ but the reality of it is so much _more._ Dizzying and fierce at the same time that it’s sweet, like Doc wants to break him, but he’s terrified of it, tempered strength held back behind a wavering forcefield, a cracking, soon-to-crumble dam. “You really _can_ do more than kiss me,” McQueen reminds him, panting hard as Doc pulls back just to look at him for a second, eyes flashing and unreadable, mouth open around a gasp. “If you want to.” 

“I want to,” he whispers darkly, and it zings down McQueen’s spine and makes him arch his back, so low and hot. “God knows I do...more than anything,” he says to McQueen’s mouth, eyes closed, face devastated as he anchors himself by pressing their brows together.

“Then do it,” McQueen begs, pushing his trembling hand under Doc’s robe since it’s falling open anyway. His fingers brush over hard flickering muscle, sweat-damp under a layer of coarse hair, and his mouth waters at how strange and wonderful and _raw_ it all is. His hard cock twitches in Doc’s borrowed sweats, and the knowledge that he’s getting the inside of them wet with precum makes him even harder. 

“I can’t, not when you’re like this,” Doc growls, nuzzling down his neck before tilting him back and catching his mouth again, all of his kisses so _deep_ and slow and searing. “But we’ll see in the morning. If you still want that, if you’re still...then we'll talk.” 

_And hopefully other stuff_ , McQueen thinks, mind too static-blind and mouth too occupied to properly answer. He just hooks an elbow around Doc’s neck, nods eagerly and messily, and tries to kiss him harder. 

Doc is good at keeping him slow, though, at pushing him away when he gets too close, too pathetic, like a dog humping his leg. He cradles McQueen’s face and gently touches the crepe-paper-soft skin under his eyes, smooths his hair away from his brow, stares at his bitten, swollen mouth while McQueen squirms. Eventually he relents and softens, and then Doc will come back, kissing him with soft, gentle, closed-mouthed kisses until they deepen again. If he’s trying to not turn him on, he’s fucking failing, but Lighting tries to be good, tries to keep his hands from wandering too much, tries to keep from pushing his aching cock into Doc’s body too obviously lest it seem like he’s not listening, not honoring the tentatively laid down boundaries between them. He thinks he’s been doing a wonderful job until Doc peels back again, thumbs roughly over his lower lip, and murmurs, “You have such a cock-sucking mouth.” 

It’s too much. It rips through him like a forest fire and leaves him charred and smoking, and he crumples against Doc with a sob, hips bucking like he's been trying not to do. “God, please, let me, just let me,” he babbles, stomach plummeting as he feels it, the hot, hard line of Doc’s cock pressing into his own stomach as he grinds into him. “M’sober now, promise, just _let me,_ show me how.” 

“Jesus,” Doc groans, rubbing his face in McQueen’s hair, hands cupping him roughly on either side of his throat like the sweetest chokehold. “You don’t make it easy.” 

“ _You_ don’t make it easy, how...how m’I supposed to lie here and take this when you’re talking about sucking cock? Just, _fuck,_ let me, please.” 

Doc keeps petting McQueen’s back, digging hungry fingers into the divots beside his spine, bruising and tender, lips against his ear. “You’re begging to suck my cock?” he asks, voice so low and broken that it makes McQueen moan aloud. 

“Yeah, yeah I am,” he promises, mouth flooding so much that their next kiss is messy-wet as he pushes the froth of spit into Doc’s mouth to _show_ him what this does to him, how ruined he is already, how _wet_ it would be. “I’ve thought about it...before this...so many times,” he stammers, biting Doc’s lip, loving how he pushes into the pain. They part in a spit-slick, and he adds, “Me getting on my knees for you.” 

It stays suspended in the humid air between them, and Doc holds his breath before it rushes out of him in a mess. 

“You’re terrible,” he hisses, but he’s untying the sash of his robe, and McQueen wants to _cry_ , he’s so moved, can hardly keep himself from reaching out and grabbing. “Trying to break me, and I don’t...don’t break easy. You kill me, kid. Kill me dead.” 

His voice is shaking, and his cock is red and thick and heavy-looking even in his _own_ big hand, and McQueen is gonna fucking _choke_ on that, he’s not gonna be able to _breathe,_ and the mere thought is too much to stand without touching himself, so he feels his cock through Doc’s sweats, squeezing as he stares. “God,” he whines, fucking his own hand, not caring how pathetic it must look. “I did that? Made you hard like that?” It gives him a weird, heady rush to think about, somehow different and more powerful than his experiences turning girls on in the past. It’s overwhelming, seeing this big, full-grown man trembling, so much older than him but still so _wrecked_ , wrecked and _weak._ And it’s all his fault. 

It’s so fucking hot that he’s dizzy, head spinning as Doc laughs at him, like it’s a crazy thing to ask, like of _course_ he makes him hard. 

“Yeah, you did this, of course you did. Imagine a young, hot-shot kid like yourself, half-naked in an old man’s bed, talking dirty, _begging_ …I didn’t stand a chance,” he tells him quietly, carding gentle fingers through his hair while he fists his own cock. The contrast between the two touches has McQueen’s stomach lurching; he wants _more,_ he wants to get his mouth around that big, leaking crown and suck.

“It’s so big,” McQueen marvels, reaching out and feeling along the flexing tendons in Doc’s forearm as he works himself over. “Are you gonna let me suck it?” he asks, licking his lips, already starting to shift down the bed, heart racing. 

“Yeah, if you do it slowly and stop if you want to or if it’s too much,” Doc murmurs, thumb rubbing through the precum shining on the head. He’s not letting McQueen move too far, grabbing his shoulder and holding him fast, keeping him from pitching forward and swallowing his cock down, so he’s just lying there on his side, hands braced on Doc’s thighs, face level with where it needs to be but unable to do anything more than look, eyes wide and mouth watering, _aching_ where Doc’s grip is pinning him. “You sure you’re ready for this, kid? You’ve never had a cock in your mouth, I can tell. Built for it, but you’ve never done it.”

His voice is ragged, breath is labored, and McQueen can tell he’s getting off on his, watching him stare at his first cock, lips swollen and slick from kissing. “Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Doc, if I have to tell you one more time how badly I wanna taste you—,” but then he’s cut off because Doc lets go of his cock and pushes his wet thumb into McQueen’s mouth. 

“Taste that,” he orders roughly, and, _fuck,_ McQueen _does,_ the salty, bitter, perfect heat of it, like nothing else he’s ever had. He moans around the mouthful, tongue swirling hungrily, eyes fluttering shut, and he hears Doc’s breath catch as he does it. He can tell that his desperation looks _good_ to Doc, and it makes him feel less embarrassed by being this way, by losing control and dissolving so easily. He sucks Doc’s thumb and listens to the steady stream of curses, unable to make sense of them over the rush of blood in his ears. 

Eventually Doc pulls out with a lewd sound, and McQueen’s eyes fly open. He’s breathless with anticipation, sick with hoping that he’ll _finally_ get what he wants as he watches Doc take his cock in hand again. “Open up,” he says very gently, and McQueen does, whimpering, stomach in knots as he humps the air. “Give me that sweet mouth.” 

McQueen does as he’s told, and Doc feeds it to him, his motions slow and gentle and careful, petting his hair all the while now that he’s no longer holding him at an arm’s distance. “That’s it _,_ fuck,” he chokes out, and McQueen’s heart stops at that _word_ again, the crude single syllable of it cutting through him. “ _God,_ you look so pretty, kid, such a pretty boy.” 

This is not the first time that McQueen has been called a pretty boy, but all of those other times were insults, like Chick Hicks trying to imply that he’s famous for his looks and not his talent, that he’s vapid and self-centered, like announcers trying to cut him down when he was a rookie. But the way that Doc says it makes his cock _throb_ , his chest tighten up with some wordless mess of pride and arousal and awe. It’s not _prettyboy,_ cutting and sardonic,it’s _pretty boy,_ like he’s a boy who is pretty, like Doc thinks he looks nice with his lips stretched and his mouth open wide, cock resting on the soft, wet pink of his tongue. He closes his mouth gently around the tip and sucks, already addicted to the flavor, to the _heat,_ to the way that it’s so soft and hard all at once. 

Doc is jerking off furiously, only giving McQueen the crown to suckle, tongue trapped under it so that he can’t even properly lick everything up like he wants to. The limitation is oddly comforting, though, like he can’t do it wrong because Doc isn’t allowing him to do anything but _this_ , fit his lips around the tip of his cock and suck, feeling the ridge of his glans under the pressure of his upper lip while _longing_ for the rest. He rubs his hands up the flickering planes of Doc’s thighs, moving the hair against the grain, squeezing and palming over whatever he can reach since he can’t do anything more with his mouth. 

After a few perfect, searing seconds, Doc pulls back, finger-combing McQueen’s sweat-slick hair away from his brow and breathlessly asking, “You like it?” 

“Love it, gimme more,” McQueen demands immediately, pitching closer and rubbing his face into the hot, humid space between Doc’s thighs while he has the freedom to. He smells strongly of musk and soap and rain, and it’s overwhelmingly good, his pubic hair scrubbing against one of McQueen’s cheeks, cock burning against the other. “You can fuck my face, fill me up.” 

Doc shakes his head and curses again, manhandling him where he wants him and feeding him the tip again. “Just this for now, wanna see my come on your tongue.” 

McQueen has no idea why that’s so hot, but it _is,_ Doc knowing what he wants, that he has his own series of fantasies he needs to see fulfilled. His own cock is so painfully hard that he _has_ to touch it, but he’s not sure if Doc wants him to yet, and he wants to do everything exactly how Doc likes it, so he pops off and asks, “Can I touch myself while I do it?” 

“Yeah, get your cock out, let’s see it,” Doc says, snapping the waistband of his sweats against McQueen’s heaving stomach. This is the moment that McQueen usually dreads during sex because his cock isn’t big or impressive in any way, and he’s always worried girls will be disappointed by it, even if he knows how to use it. But he can tell by the way that Doc’s voice is so rough, by the way that he’s slowing everything down and _watching_ that it’s not gonna matter. Doc is so invested, he’s studying him so carefully, just like the videos he takes of McQueen’s practice runs to watch and rewatch and take notes and give him specific feedback. McQueen feels profoundly _seen_ right now, _desired_ , and he completely forgets his cock is even something that he’s insecure about. He just suckles hungrily and pulls Doc’s sweats down, gets the waistband below his balls to expose his erection, which thumps hot and red against his stomach as it’s freed. 

“Jesus Christ, look at you,” Doc murmurs reverently, squeezing his own cock as it throbs against McQueen’s tongue. “Everything about you...so sweet, so perfect. Can’t wait to suck the come from that perfect little cock.” 

McQueen whites out for a second, both at the sensation of _finally_ being able to touch himself but also at what Doc is _saying,_ the rough, dirty hunger scraping in his voice, thick and longing like McQueen really _is_ perfect, like he’s exactly what he wants. He slides his mouth further down, forgetting to keep his tongue flat and soft, lashing it around the tip, trying desperately to get more of Doc in his mouth, _needing_ it. It tastes so good, so _raw,_ and he groans self-indulgently, tugging on himself as his lips press into Doc’s knuckles. 

It’s only a few inches, not even close to the entirety of Doc’s shaft, but he still feels impaled in the best sort of way, forced to breathe through his nose, drool frothing out as he bobs his head clumsily, limited by Doc’s other hand in his hair, holding him in place. He’s _insanely_ close to coming, astounded by how little it’s taken, how _hot_ he is for Doc, spurred on by the way that Doc is _staring,_ drinking him in: the sight of McQueen’s lips stretched tight and his eyes shut in bliss, the way his own dick is dripping and flexing in his hand.

He sucks until his jaw aches, making Doc’s hand spit-wet and shiny, he’s so messy with it, the whole world reduced to this hot, damp space, the smell of Doc’s skin and his sweat, overwhelming and strong and heady. He feels lost in it, so he’s caught off guard as Doc tugs him back by his hair, leaving his mouth open and wet and gasping.“If you wanna swallow, gimme that tongue,” Doc grinds out, voice in tatters like a sail after a storm, arm working furiously. “If not, close your eyes.” 

McQueen groans and opens his mouth wide, and Doc is cursing and coming, the first hot ribbon of it landing on his cheek, stunning him, making him flinch. He realigns and catches the next spurt in his mouth, Doc’s cockhead resting on his tongue as he continues to shoot off. It’s _so much come,_ much more than McQueen comes unless he hasn’t jacked off in a while, and he chokes on it, swallowing reflexively, heart racing at the way it tingles on the way down, burning and too salty to be real, the entire ocean in a single mouthful. 

“Fuck, kid, look at you,” Doc praises over the deafening thud in McQueen’s ears. “Covered in me.” 

McQueen thinks _pretty boy_ again, wonders if Doc is thinking it, too, with the way that he tenderly brushes his knuckles down the length of McQueen’s flushed face before thumbing up his own come and feeding it to him, offering it to lick up. And he does, slowly and deliberately, eyes fluttering closed. It’s not even that he _likes_ the taste particularly, it’s more that it’s Doc, and Doc is _giving it to him,_ offering it, and there’s something so dirty-wonderful and intimate about that; he wants to savor it. “I’m so happy you rethought your _staunch_ resistance to my advances,” he slurs, rolling onto his back and palming over his cock. “I feel like I came even though I didn’t...m’weirdly satisfied.” 

“Does that mean you don’t want me to touch this?” Doc asks, reaching out and curling his huge hand around McQueen’s cock as his own grip falls away. He cranes his neck up off the bed to stare, and, _fuck,_ he looks so small in Doc’s fist, hardly anything but the very tip visible as he holds him, palm hot and glorious. 

“No, no, _please,_ do whatever you want,” McQueen begs, arching his back, lolling on the sweat-damp sheets, thighs spread lewdly. Doc makes him want to spread out and show himself off in a way that he’s never felt before, makes him want to bask in the heat of such acute, clearly expressed attraction. In his prior experiences with girls, he never felt _coveted_ this way, picked apart and devoured, probably because he was expected to do the picking apart, the devouring, and he was happy to comply. But the mutuality of being with Doc is so unexpected and so affirming and so _hot_ that it makes him _want_ to be vulnerable, _want_ to expose himself. 

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Doc breathes, moving so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with one of McQueen’s legs over his lap, the other behind his back. His full attention is fixed where they’re touching, and he opens his hand to hold McQueen’s cock in his palm and study it, thumbing gently up the vein on the underside, petting the almost-ginger nest of pubes it’s nestled in with his other hand. 

“You keep calling me pretty,” McQueen observes, letting his thighs fall apart, giving Doc more room to touch. “I don't hate it.” 

Doc half-smiles, gaze still trained on McQueen’s cock, hard and leaking. “You’re handsome, too, don't worry. You’re a good-looking kid in every way there is to be good-looking. But like this, on your back? In my bed? You’re pretty.” He says it so quietly and sincerely that McQueen’s toes curl against the sheets, a wave of heat breaking over him like the dawn. 

“Okay,” he says, voice breathy and tapering off into a hiss as Doc firmly wraps his fingers back around his cock and feels him out. “ _Fuck_ , that’s good,” McQueen whines, rolling his hips. “Love your hands...thought about them all over me so many times, touching me everywhere.” 

“Hmmm,” Doc rumbles, squeezing, opening his other palm wide on McQueen’s thigh and gripping it. “Everywhere? Like here?” he asks, sliding his hand down so that his thumb brushes ever so slightly over McQueen’s hole. He feels himself flutter and twitch, his heart stopping. Of course, he _has_ thought about this, a shameful secret fantasy reserved for pushing him over the edge when the usual fantasies about straddling Doc and grinding against him until he comes aren’t enough. He's imagined it countless times, lying on his stomach with his ass pushed into the air, Doc’s chest hair rubbing against his spine as he fucks him into the mattress, big and heavy and tender-rough above him, the weight suffocating and perfect. McQueen doesn’t fully understand the mechanics of gay sex, and he’s too afraid to watch porn or look it up, but it’s definitely something he wants, something he’s dreamed about while experimentally touching himself and thinking about how much _better_ Doc would do it. The feeling of Doc so gently but _intentionally_ rubbing him there confirms it, makes him writhe and chase the contact, cock twitching. 

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” he admits, cheeks heating up. 

Doc leans over McQueen briefly to get something out of the bedside table and comes back with a black bottle that he uncaps with his thumb. Compared to the Lubriderm that McQueen uses to jack off, it seems elegant, and he watches with his heart in his throat as Doc squeezes a generous amount out, coating his fingers. He uses one slick hand to stoke McQueen’s cock steadily, and the other prods gently under his sac, into the crease of his ass. _God._ He tenses up, gasping, and Doc reminds him, “I’ll stop if it’s too much...just tell me.” 

“No, no, I want it,” he whimpers. “I just...s’all new, all of this...give me time to catch up.” 

“You can take all the time in the world, son,” Doc assures him, rubbing the blunt, wide tip of his index finger against the tight furl of muscle gently, everything so nervy and sensational that McQueen breaks out in a sweat, parted thighs quaking. “God, so tight...no one’s ever touched you here, have they?” His voice is rough and hungry and possessive, and McQueen _loves_ it, arches his back and bears down on his finger, wanting to be breached so _badly._ The stretch makes him gasp; Doc’s fingers are not as narrow as his own, and the angle is more direct, more inescapable. It’s _good_ , though, a delicious, raw, dirty burn inside him as Doc pushes deeper. 

“No...no one but me, I guess,” he gasps, wondering how the fuck Doc’s cock will ever fit up inside him when just _this_ alone, even with all the lube, is so overwhelming. 

“Jesus,” Doc groans, pushing deep and crooking his finger up, working him from the inside out so smooth and deep and certain that it's like a heartbeat. “You’ve done this to yourself? Where, in the shower?” he asks, like he wants to picture it, like he’s wishing he had been there, watching, calling it _pretty._ McQueen shivers, cock leaking all over his stomach as it flexes with every deep stroke. 

“No, in bed. I tried on my stomach first, reaching around, but...ah, _fuck”_ he keens as Doc nudges another finger up alongside the first, the stretch so _good_ and persistent. “God, that’s _so_ much, feels so fucking full.” 

“You’re so tight up here, so hot inside,” Doc tells him, crooking his fingers and just holding them there, motionless while McQueen flutters and twitches around the intrusion, his body doing so many wild, involuntary things. He feels out of control, but he _loves_ it, wants it, feels taken care of enough that it’s _okay_ that he’s falling apart. “Bet you couldn’t fit more than two fingers.” 

“Not even two...think it was one, then I switched to my back because the angle wasn’t right on my stomach,” McQueen explains, and then, because it’s true and because he thinks Doc might like to hear it, he adds, “Pretended it was you, though, touching me.” 

“ _God_ ,” Doc hisses, pumping his fingers in and out so deep and hard that McQueen yelps, chasing the pressure, sac tightening in anticipation of coming. “You fingered yourself, fantasizing about your old man’s cock,” he states, not a question but a retelling, spelling the whole filthy, humiliating truth out there for McQueen to squirm under like a microscope. 

“Yeah,” he gasps, feeling his hole clutch at Doc’s slick fingers as they push into him and slide out rhythmically, the motion so easy even though he feels so _tight,_ so full to the brim. “Thought about you... _fuck,_ Doc,” he yelps, clutching at the sheets because his orgasm is coming, the sort of climax that he has no control over, no way to build to or stave off because it’s brakeless, powerful, bigger than him. “Thought about you putting my legs over your shoulders and bending me in half...filling me up... _oh, god,”_ he wails as he shoots off over Doc’s fist, come hitting him in the chest, painting his sternum in ribbons of white as Doc huffs out an awed breath and keeps fucking his ass, deep and insistent. McQueen’s hole is spasming madly, and there’s nothing he can do about it, it’s terrifying and wonderful and there are tears on his face when he comes down from the static haze he was lost in, heart pounding. 

Doc’s smoothing his come all over his stomach, up to his drawn-tight nipples, two fingers still tucked deep into his ass. It hurts a little now that McQueen’s already come, but it also feels _good,_ aches in this deep, soul-crushing way that makes him want to cry, curl up against Doc’s broad chest, and be held. He feels used up but not used, and it’s perfect. “You okay, kid?” Doc asks gently as he drags his fingers out slowly and easily. It makes McQueen hiss out a breath, and he feels empty and wet in ways that he can’t describe, trembling on the sweat-damp sheets. Doc disentangles himself from him and sits up, turning to arrange McQueen’s legs on the bed. 

They're trembling deadweight, and the rest of him isn’t that much better, so all he can do is lie there limply while Doc shrugs his robe back on and looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face, eyes focused and blue as they climb up and down his body. He must look so thoroughly _fucked,_ cheeks flushed and hair a wreck of sweat, his come shiny and sticky on his heaving chest. “Wow,” he croaks, voice gone because he made so much noise. “I _knew_ you’d be so good at it.” 

The corner of Doc’s mouth turns up, but the smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I knew you’d be perfect, too.” 

They’re not exactly the same thing, these two observations, but McQueen can’t form coherent thoughts right now, so he just takes it, eyes fluttering closed as Doc disappears into the bathroom. He comes back with an honest-to-god damp _washcloth,_ and it’s such a weird, particular, old-man thing to own that McQueen laughs weakly, head lolling on the sheets as Doc uses it to wipe the come off, carefully and tenderly. He’s regained a lot of his composure, and McQueen tries not to worry about it, tries to tell himself that it’s alright, that it doesn’t mean he’s gonna run or insist that he sleep on the couch again or pretend this never happened. 

Doc takes the washcloth back to the bathroom and returns with a glass of water, which he offers to McQueen. He chugs it and wipes his tremulous hand on the back of his mouth, studying Doc over the rim of the glass. “Just like after a race or a workout, huh? Always taking care of me.” He sets the now empty water glass down next to the lube on the bedside table, hand unsteady and tremulous. “Do you ever relax? Like, will you...I don’t know, just lie down with me?” he asks, patting the rumpled sheets beside him. “Or are you a no-cuddling-after-sex sort of guy?” 

Doc is very, very quiet as he climbs into bed; he’s next to McQueen but not _next_ to him, not close enough that McQueen feels comfortable settling against his chest, looping an arm around his waist, so he lies there and fidgets, getting under the covers so that his spent cock isn't as exposed. “I don't know what sort of guy I am because I’ve never had the opportunity to do anything after sex besides leave a bathroom stall or duck a punch,” Doc admits after a while, hands folded neatly on his stomach as he lies on his back, still studying McQueen. “So forgive me if I’m trying to keep busy doing mentor-type stuff, kid, it’s what I know. Lots of this is new to me, too, believe it or not.” 

McQueen’s heart is pounding at the confession. He didn’t _know,_ really, about the details of Doc’s past with men, but maybe he _should_ have. Maybe it was insensitive to assume that he’d ever had, like, an honest-to-god boyfriend or something. “Oh,” he says uneasily, wondering what he should do next, if he’s going to turn desperate and pitiful again, only in a different way. “I’m...well. I’m really sorry about that, but experience or lack thereof aside…what do _you_ want? Because I want it all, really. Not just the mind-blowing sex or whatever, but, like…to hold you. Sleep with you, wake up with you,” he rambles. Then he shrugs, feeling embarrassed by his excess as it comes out, how _raw_ everything is regarding how he feels about Doc. He can’t even hide it, doesn't know how to shove it back inside now that the blood has spilled everywhere. 

Doc shakes his head. “You know, I’ve thought about damn near everything with you...imagined so many ways that I’d have you, so many ways to make you feel good. I’ve spent an awful lot of time fantasizing about it, actually,” he admits. 

“Same,” McQueen interjects, chewing his lip. “But you already know that.” 

“See, but in all the time that I’ve spent thinking about it, I never thought about the after part. Because I _knew_ , or I thought I knew, that it would never happen...and if it _did_ happen, it would be a one-off mistake, some freak of nature. But then it happened, and you...well. You surprised me.” 

McQueen can’t stand it anymore, he needs to be close, he needs to feel Doc’s skin again, inhale his breath, so he scoots across the bed, closing the distance between their bodies. He half-expects Doc to recoil, but he turns to face him instead, on his side so that they’re regarding each other. “I think about the after part,” McQueen confesses, reaching out and laying a hand on the side of Doc’s face, cupping it, thumbing over the neatly trimmed beard, thinking back to how good it felt against his skin, scoring his chin raw as they kissed. “I think about, um…I don’t know, making you pancakes. Watching those awful war movies you like on the couch and not even giving a fuck because I can kiss you, lean against you. I fantasize about fucking, all the time, but also just…like, boring domestic stuff, too. So if you thought I didn’t want that, you should know that I do.” 

Doc’s eyes are wet as he blinks, and it makes McQueen’s stomach knot up, his throat get thick as he decidedly shifts even closer, stubbornly fitting himself into Doc’s arms, occupying the space like he belongs. “I thought all of that was impossible,” Doc says gruffly, wiping his face in McQueen’s hair. 

“But it’s not, so if you want it…I don’t know, _do_ you want it?” he asks, just to be sure, even though he thinks he can tell by the way that Doc’s breathing him in, hands tentative on his sides and shoulders like he’s touching him for the first time, still half-convinced that this is an elaborate joke, that McQueen won’t want it in the morning. Good thing Lightning McQueen is stubborn as all fuck and won’t give up when he’s got a goal in sight. He flattens his palm over Doc’s thudding heart, counting the beats. “You can have it...I mean, it’s already yours.” 

“I snore,” Doc announces, hooking an arm around McQueen’s neck and rolling him onto his back, kissing him hard, stealing his breath. “And I’m gonna die way before you do,” he murmurs as they part.

“ _I’m_ the one with the high-risk job,” McQueen argues, heart leaping, threatening to soar out of his chest as Doc rolls off him to get under the covers and hit the lights. “I could die before you...you never know.” 

In the dark, things feel different, though, almost as if there’s no room for jokes. Doc settles in close to him, spine to his chest, and McQueen is thrilled that he doesn't pull away when he curls his arm around him, spooning him even though Doc’s significantly bigger, and it makes him feel dwarfed. It feels good, the solidity, the smell of his skin so close and so hot. He kisses the topmost knob of his spine, and Doc sighs, mumbles, “A couple of rookies, the both of us...who’d’ve thought.” 

And McQueen nods against his back, thinking of all the shit they have left to learn, of the open road and glittering asphalt, of a horizon line that doesn't end. 

 


End file.
